


The Trick Is To Keep Breathing

by babylungs



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Depression, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:10:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1388863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babylungs/pseuds/babylungs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ridiculously quick one-shot  about post-breakup depression and how Derek doesn't deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trick Is To Keep Breathing

The world around them dimmed, details faded, lost in a colorless blur. Background noises grew to volumes unbearably loud, such a strain to comprehend particular voices. Everything was too real and not real enough.

  
"I don't understand." Derek choked out, brows furrowed as he stared at Stiles across the table. A little steam from his coffee licked and swirled in front of his face.

  
Stiles sighed deeply, lips pressed together in a tight line. "I'm sorry, Derek, I just don't--" A hand scrubbed down his face then lingered over his mouth, eyes flicking away, glimmering in the soft candle light. He looked like the words physically pained him to speak.

  
_Good_ , Derek thought bitterly.

  
"I care about you, I do." Stiles mumbled when he finally brought his scattered attention back to their conversation. "I just, I don't love you. As a friend, of course, unconditionally. But... not the way you need me to."

  
"I don't _need_ \--" The words caught in his throat. There was no point in denying it, really, and lying helped nothing. Stiles' mind was made up, and his resolve was iron-clad.

  
Stiles' hand slowly closed the distance between them, reaching across what felt like millions of miles for him, for something. Derek quickly jerked away, nearly knocking over the cup of coffee he was nursing while he was still able to swallow.

  
"I didn't want to do it like this, I swear." he said softly, letting his rejected hand rest in the middle of the table.

  
"Well, you did." Derek snapped, icy gaze locking on Stiles' sympathetic eyes. It was impossible to tell if Stiles was crying through his own thin veil of tears, but Derek could hope.

  
"I-I'm sorry." he whispered. "I really am; I feel horrible. I don't know what-- Just tell me what to do or say to make you believe me."

  
"Nothing." Derek spat, pushing his chair back and rising to his feet. "I don't need your apologies, your love, or your  _pity_." Digging a ten out of his wallet and slamming it beside his mug, he growled, "I don't fucking  _need_ you."

  
"Derek," Stiles looked up at him, voice soft and soothing. It would have been comforting to him if the circumstances were different, but now it made his stomach lurch.

  
"No. I knew what this was. I was the idiot who let myself get too involved, too attached. I learned a long time ago that you can't always trust the people you want to. You made me forget that, for a second, forget that I'm not allowed to be happy. So thank you for the reminder."

  
The air outside was brisk, colder than one would expect August to be, even in Beacon Hills. Derek ground the heel of his sneaker into the concrete as he turned, headed down the sidewalk. He could hear the distant call of his name, Stiles sounding pained and frantic. There was a 99% possibility that it was only in his mind, but that 1% begged him to look, to hope. As badly as he wished it to be true, he just couldn't chance it, not with the universe crumbling around him, the planets crashing into dust.

 

A block from ground zero, he collapsed against the steering wheel of his Camaro, gasping for air like his lungs were ripped from his body the same way his heart had been. The cell phone buzzing in his cup holder was the only thing keeping him tethered. It was probably Stiles, calling to talk some more, as if it would make a difference. Once you've shattered Derek's heart, nothing you have to say matters.

  
There were a few more calls, a couple texts, maybe. Derek couldn't be sure, all the vibrations seemed to meld into a single God-awful reminder that he wasn't literally dying.

  
Over the next few weeks, Derek found himself going for a lot of walks around town. Okay, so maybe "wandering aimlessly" would be a better term to describe what he was doing, but whatever. He lived in his head nowadays, barely speaking to anyone other than himself. It probably wasn't healthy -- _definitely_ wasn't healthy, his friends would say, but their opinions were worth scarcely more than the apology texts and voicemails Stiles had left him that night. Beyond that point, Derek didn't hear from him again.

  
Sometimes during his mindless strolls, he'd find Stiles' Jeep parked outside his old house, visiting his dad from University, Derek figured. The light was usually on in the window of his childhood room, regardless of the time of night Derek was out. Part of him wondered if Stiles could sense him like he used to from all the way across the street. Had enough time passed for their metaphysical bond to break? Or was it just weakened? He didn't know why he tortured himself this way, but he couldn't stay away. It was like something was drawing him to that street, and he just had to pass on by the house he once felt so comfortable in that now felt strange and cold.

  
Derek wasn't sure exactly when it happened, but he took up smoking as an idiotic way to cope or relieve stress or occupy his time, like a new hobby. Regular cigarettes always left an awful taste in his mouth, but cloves were soothing and didn't make his clothes or fingers smell like dirty, stale ash.

  
Stiles used to smoke cloves, putting his (then) fake ID to good use as often as he could. When Derek asked why he bothered with the pointless cancer sticks, he would say they were sweet, made his mouth taste like spices. Then he'd smirk, lean over, and draw Derek's tongue passed his lips, dragging slow and soft and making Derek's legs quiver. Stiles would slide his tongue along with Derek's and hum, eyes shut, really savoring the moment. It was one of the only things he could honestly say he'd die to feel again.

  
Most days were spent in bed, dirty sheets and a playlist to match his mood. The walls needed to be repainted, Derek realized from his vantage point, having memorized every drip and tiny streak of white left behind by the shoddy job he overpaid for. At night, when he wasn't roaming the empty streets, he prowled bars, downing drinks until he wished he'd never been born. He wasn't always alone. Someone who looked like Derek rarely found themselves solo in bars, and he was no exception. Men, women, it didn't matter. He gave himself to anyone who wanted to take him home. Or to the backseat of their car. Or, if even that seemed too far, to the narrow alley in the back. Anywhere would do, anything to make him feel less empty.

  
There were a few areas and things Derek avoided in his own house. The floor on the right side of his bed -- Stiles' side -- being the main one. Stiles had left a few articles of clothing, haphazardly tossed at the wall or kicked under the bed. Derek slung over the side, head propped up on a pillow and arms dangling as he traced the seams, fingertips grazing the material, memorizing it. He'd lie there for a while, stomach somersaulting, just remembering the way the clothes hung on Stiles' slender frame. If he felt brave enough, he picked a shirt up and brought it to his face, rubbing his stubbled cheek and inhaling deeply the faint aroma of Stiles' cologne and his own personal scent.

  
The red plaid was Derek's favorite; he was both grateful and distressed that it was among the few forgotten articles. The sleeves were still rolled up halfway, where they'd rest just below Stiles' elbows. It was a weakness of Derek's, the view of Stiles' forearms -- the shifting of lean muscle, branches of pronounced veins leading down to large hands and long, deft fingers. He missed the contrast of their bodies, the look of their arms tangled together, hands clasped tightly and fingers interlaced. Derek was much broader than Stiles -- shoulders, stomach, hips, legs, even his hands were wider and thicker, hard muscle flexing with every movement. Stiles used to tease him about how bulky he was, that all he needed was a bright red Speedo and he'd be in the running for Mr. Universe. Well, Derek's physique was nowhere near that condition now. He'd long since given up on his appearance and his health. The friends who cared enough to stick by him through his black hole of an existence were concerned, said he'd lost so much weight, they had never seen him "so... skinny, _far too skinny_ ". After a while, when he was done with being criticized and pitied, he stopped returning their calls.

  
Derek could never bring himself to erase Stiles' texts or voicemails. Somewhere between six months and a year later, wasn't sure exactly how much time had gone by, he was able to read and listen to them again. Soon they were the only ones left in his phone. His favorite was the voicemail where it sounded like Stiles was crying, telling Derek he would forever hold the biggest piece of Stiles' heart and he pleads with Derek to find it in his own to remain friends. It was the only message Derek wished he was strong enough to respond to rather than listen repeatedly. Of course he _wanted_ to be friends still -- again. But that could never happen, not while he was still so obsessed, not while it was still a habit of his to wonder where the hell he went wrong, over analyzing until his brain ached. The more he stared at the last words Stiles ever sent to him, the more tempted he was to call the number so deeply etched in his brain that he can't remember what it was like when he didn't recite the digits in his head automatically at the mere sight of his phone. He wanted to ask what was wrong with him, what was so horrible about Derek that meant Stiles couldn't love him as more than a friend. But if he doesn't say anything, then he's safe. Safe from another rejection. Safe to imagine a thousand scenarios where they end up together. Safe in his solidarity from the unknown.

  
Silence is golden, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Work inspired by (but mostly plagiarized) Garbage's "Cup of Coffee".


End file.
